The Redbreast(83)

There were two Edvard Moskens on the screen.

One was born in 1942, the other in 1921.

‘We’re having a department party next Saturday,’

Meirik said.

‘I’ve got the invitation in my pigeon-hole.’ Harry

double-clicked on 1921 and the address of the

older Mosken came up. He lived in Drammen.

‘Personnel said you hadn’t responded yet. I just

wanted to make sure you were coming.’

‘Why’s that?’

Harry tapped Edvard Mosken’s ID number into

Criminal Records. ‘We like people to get to know

each other across departmental boundaries. I

haven’t even seen you in the canteen once yet.’

‘I’m quite happy here in the office.’

No hits. He brought up the Central National

Register for everyone who’d had formal dealings

with the police for any reason. Not necessarily

prosecuted – they might, for instance, have been

arrested, reported or themselves been a victim of a

criminal act.

‘It’s good to see you immersed in cases, but don’t

wall yourself in here. Will I see you at the party,

Harry?’

ENTER.

‘I’ll see. I have another arrangement I made a

long time ago,’ Harry lied.

No hits again. While he was in the Central

National Register he might as well put in the third

name Fauke had given him. H-a-l-l-g-r-i-m D-a-l-

e. An opportunist, in Fauke’s view. Relied on

Hitler winning the war and rewarding those who

had chosen the right side. Had already regretted it

by the time he got to Sennheim, but it was too late

to turn back. Harry had thought there was

something vaguely familiar about the name when

Fauke had said it, and now the same feeling

resurfaced.

‘Let me put it a little stronger,’ Meirik said. ‘I am

instructing you to come.’

Harry looked up. Meirik smiled.

‘A joke,’ he said. ‘But it would be nice to see you

there. Have a good evening.’

‘Bye,’ Harry mumbled, returning to the screen.

One Hallgrim Dale. Born 1922. ENTER.

The screen filled with text. One more page. And

then another.

They didn’t all do well after the war then, Harry

thought. Hallgrim Dale – place of residence:

Schweigaards gate, Oslo – was what newspapers

loved to describe as ‘no stranger to the police’.

Harry’s eyes ran down the list. Vagrancy,

drunkenness, harassment of neighbour, petty

larceny, affray. A lot, but nothing of any real

consequence. The most impressive thing was that

he was still alive, Harry thought, as he noted down

that he had been taken in to sober up as recently as

last August. He found the Oslo telephone directory,

looked up Dale’s number and rang. While he was

waiting for an answer he searched the register and

found the other Edvard Mosken, born in 1942. He

had an address in Drammen, too. He took down the

ID number and went back to Criminal Records.

‘This is a message from Telenor. You have

reached a telephone number which is no longer in

use. This is a me—’

Harry wasn’t surprised. He put down the phone.

Edvard Mosken Junior had been given a prison

sentence. A long sentence; he was still inside.

What for? Drugs, Harry guessed, and pressed

ENTER. A third of all prisoners had been on a drugs

charge. There. Yes indeed. Smuggling hash. Four

kilos. Four years, unconditional sentence.

Harry yawned and stretched. Was he getting

anywhere or was he just sitting here wasting time

because the only other place he felt like going was

Schrøder’s, and he didn’t feel like sitting there

drinking coffee? What a shit day. He summed up:

Gudbrand Johansen doesn’t exist, at least not in

Norway; Edvard Mosken lives in Drammen and

has a son with a drugs conviction; and Hallgrim

Dale is a drunk and hardly the type to have half a

million kroner to blow.

Harry rubbed his eyes.

Should he look up Fauke in the telephone

directory to see if there was a number for

Homenkollveien? He groaned.

She has a partner. And she has money. And

class. In short: everything you don’t have.

He put Hallgrim Dale’s ID number into the

Register. enter. The machine whirred and churned.

Long list. More of the same. Poor old alkie.

You both studied law. And she likes the Raga

Rockers, too.

Wait a moment. On the last record, Dale was

coded as ‘victim’. Had he been beaten up? enter.

Forget her. That’s it, now she was forgotten.

Should he ring Ellen and ask if she fancied going

to the cinema? Let her choose the film. No, he’d

better go to Focus. Sweat it out.

It flashed at him from the screen.

HALLGRIM DALE. 151199. MURDER.

Harry took a deep breath. He was surprised, but